


Tree of Life

by Mirach



Series: Aragorn in peril [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A sentient tree, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt Aragorn, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Nimloth - Freeform, Númenor, One Shot, Pre-War of the Ring, Teitho Fanfiction Contest, The Silmarillion References, The White Tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: When Aragorn found the sapling of the White Tree upon the slopes of Mindolluin, it was seven years old. When the first leaf of its ancestor opened, Isildur was healed. When did the new tree begin to grow, and why?
Series: Aragorn in peril [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508084
Kudos: 16
Collections: Teitho Fanfiction Contest Collection





	Tree of Life

3013 T.A.

There was the sun and the wind. There was the warm soil and rain. And the cycle – the never ceasing cycle of rebirth and oblivion, the wisdom of years.

Beginning - just a faint idea, a hope nestled in the bud. Precious, tender, opening – like a word quietly spoken, like a frail butterfly wing – the first leaf. Shy green palms turned to the sun, sleepy yet, but full of joy and expectation, the song of sap flowing under the bark. The dance of leaves in the wind, the shining dew of mornings, and the gentle breeze stroking the branches - whispering a quiet melody.

Then the high noon of summer, the dreams with the scent of honey and amber, sweet slumber. Autumn comes too soon with the cold breath of wind, the last goodbye to the leaving sun – and for that a dress of the colour of the sun's hair, gold and scarlet. Dignified and proud like a queen she is in that dress, watching her leaves flutter one by one with the wind, and giving something of herself away, dying a little with every leaf, and letting the wind take her pain.

Naked she falls asleep, and snow embraces her softly, the green summer just a memory in the darkness of oblivion. Light going through the darkness to be born anew – just a faint idea, a hope nestled in the bud.

Year by year.

The changing of seasons, the rhythm of her life.

Century by century.

And then came sudden pain, a sting of sharp metal. The sap of her life mixed with another, red and warm.

* * *

He ran. Out of breath, not looking back. The wet branches whipping his face. Ahead – darkness of the night forest. Behind – cries of pursuit, iron boots crushing the dead leaves. Ahead, miles to the east – Rivendell in the secret, guarded valley. Behind – the wandering group of Orcs from the Misty Mountains who got too close to the inhabited lands. Between them – a Ranger who underestimated the endurance of Orcs and his weariness.

Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he just wanted to lure the Orcs away from the road, knowing that a group of travellers would be passing that way soon. The travellers didn't know him, they didn't know of the danger lurking on the road. Well… he had succeeded - but had no time to think about it. There was a band of angry Orcs after him.

Aragorn stumbled on a root. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet. He caught a glimpse of his pursuers – dark shadows, glowing eyes. Nearing. He found his footing. He ran. To the east: Rivendell is to the east. In the east the sun will rise soon.

Rivendell. A vision of rest and safety. And more, much more. His family. His love. His heart ached to see them; he longed to hold Arwen's slender hand in his. After he returned from his journeys, he headed first after the call of duty, to the Rangers. But now, assured that no evil befell the Dúnedain during his absence, he followed the call of his heart. So long it was since he had last seen them. The hunt for Gollum took him far from his kin and family, to dark and dangerous places, and still it remained unsuccessful, still the wretched creature eluded him, and he didn't know if he would ever manage to fulfil his promise to Gandalf. But he did not want to dwell on that thought – not with the Orcs behind his back.

The sun will rise soon – that was a thought to dwell on. The sun will rise, and drive the Orcs into hiding. They were the mountain sort, fearing the light of day. Then he will see Rivendell again.

He was just taking a shortcut, he thought wryly when the cries of Orcs grew louder. Oh Arien, where are you? Surely you should have already started your daily journey… Bring light that the creatures of darkness can't withstand…

He saw an impressive silhouette ahead. There was a clearing with a great tree – several men would have trouble to embrace it. A little creek rumbled nearby. What a beautiful place, he though. Yet he had no time to admire the beauty. In the clearing, the Orcs had a clear shot at him. He quickened his mad flight. His lungs burned. Breathe. Later. In safety. Now run! Legs like lead. Forget. Just run. Run!

The whistling of air was his only warning. He turned on his heel – to face a flying spear. He dashed to the side. Too late.

Explosion of pain.

The hard impact against the rough bark. The sharp, agonized cry. Everything was drowned by pain – the merciless, fiery pain as the Orc spear pierced his shoulder, and impaled him to the tree.

Pain. And darkness.

* * *

She let the years pass by, savouring the sun and drinking the rain. But now, she turned to the present moment, anchored in it by the sharp metal boring into her living wood. By the red, warm blood that soaked into it. To her, it was just a little sting – but pulsing beside her, like one heart beside another, she felt another thread of life - as frail and fragile as the opening bud in a storm. Blood and sap mixed. Now they were one.

Malice and cruelty was in the air. Dark creatures entering her glade. To end the life. To break the bud. She could not allow it! The ancient wood creaked.

* * *

The Orcs advanced, grinning maliciously. What a sight it was! The Ranger impaled to the tree like a helpless rat on a skewer. They laughed. Some of them even began to sing a mocking tune. What a prey this was! And it even seemed that the Ranger was still alive, for the spear pierced his shoulder, but missed the lung. There was a lot of fun ahead!

One of the Orcs stopped, his grin freezing. He sensed something was amiss. His companions did not notice – all their attention was with the unconscious Ranger, already planning what to do with him. Take him with the spear, it's a good way to carry him home, suggested one. No, he will not last that long, protested another. Finish him now, before the cruel sun rises. Finish him, all right, next one joined the argument. But slowly. Take him into some dark hole and have a bit fun until it will be dark enough to travel. Why take him home whole when the head is enough, isn't it…

As they neared the centre of the glade, the argument continued, but that one Orc no longer paid attention. Something was wrong here…

THUD

With an ominous crack, a heavy dry branch fell in the middle of the group. Screams, panic. Some ran away. Some could not, crushed by the weight. Those in the back did not know what happened, and were knocked off their feet by those running away. The Ranger was momentarily forgotten.

"Enough!" a loud cry brought some order into the panic. The group had a new leader, it seemed. A cool head was all it took to become a leader when the old one lay crushed beneath a piece of wood.

Another loud crack. Instinct alone saved the new leader from the fate of his predecessor. The branch still had a few green leaves…

With a loud yelp, he ran away. The panic ensued anew.

Just a few moments after the last Orcs disappeared from the glade, the Sun rose.

* * *

She laughed inwardly. It was worth the living branch. The dark creatures ran away, and she knew they would not return.

Just for a few moments she laughed. She could feel the little flame of life flickering; the heartbeat that echoed in her wood was quick and shallow. Blood and sap. She could feel the blood soaking through her bark. Drop by drop flowing down, to the soil, to the roots… She drank it, the heavy, coppery taste. She drank the strength from it, and it mixed with her own, with the strength and wisdom of centuries, with the steadiness of the roots and freshness of the leaves. From the roots she drove the strength, from the mighty trunk, and towering branches, from the green leaves.

It was the strength of life, the golden fire that does not devour. With that strength she embraced the dwindling flame, steadying, rekindling it.

The Sun rose in the sky, and flowers in the glade opened and turned their heads towards the golden rays. To her, though, hours had no meaning. She was patient, timeless. The little flame burned stronger, then dwindled again. She was patient. Finally, with the Sun nearing her zenith, the flame stirred, and rose higher.

* * *

_Where…?_

Fire was burning in his shoulder, sending hot tendrils of agony through his body. He wanted to scream in pain, but just a moan brushed past his lips. Why there was the taste of tree sap in his mouth, he did not know, nor care. There was a spear sticking from his shoulder – that captured all his attention after he managed to focus his eyes.

_What….?_

He shifted only slightly, not even consciously.

 _Wha..!_ The pain made his fists clench in agony, his head hitting the hard wood. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, the pain too great to be even voiced. It took ages for it to abate, to allow him to see anything besides the dark-red mist and hear something else than the pounding of his heart. A trickle of cold sweat ran down his temple. His breath was coming in short gasps. The shaft of the spear was red with his blood. As from a great distance he could hear the rumbling of a creek and whispering of leaves. The sound of water was tantalizing, mocking his thirst. But the other sound – the leaves in the breeze – was strangely soothing, like a cool hand brushing his brow.

_What happened? The… spear… orcs…_

He gritted his teeth, and raised his eyes. There was no living Orc in the glade. It was peaceful, like a sanctuary. Two thick branches lay on the ground, and it seemed to him he could discern a dead Orc under one of them.

_The orcs… spear… and tree…_

The tree, the biggest tree he had ever seen. He could not see it now, could not turn his head, but he could feel its presence. It was a gentle, magnificent spirit. With effort he unclenched his fists, and moved his fingers slightly, careful to not irritate his wound again. He could feel the texture of bark, warm from the sun. He could feel something – like a golden light – filling the mighty trunk, penetrating his body and soothing the pain. He moaned quietly, and closed his eyes. The darkness had a tint of gold, and he embraced it with relief.

* * *

She stood watch over him, a silent sentry while the world around was busy with flowering and gathering the sweet nectar, for it was late spring. She shielded him from the sun, the canopy of her leaves giving a cool green shade. She soothed his pain, humming her own melody, the melody of wood and roots and leaves. When the sun set in the sky, she preserved the warmth in her bark, for the nights were still cold. That was all she could do for him, for the strange little flame of pure light, for the red blood in his veins that became her own.

* * *

Pulsing pain. White agony with every heartbeat. Difficult to breathe. Difficult to think…

It was already dark when he came to himself again. His thoughts were muddled. He could barely hear them through the pounding of his heart. The world spun, he did not know if he was standing or prone. No, leaning on the warm bark of a tree… but the tree spun with him… a whirlpool of pain.

He moaned. Parched throat, cracked lips. The sound of the little stream grew unbearably loud, the sound piercing his head, but still mocking, tempting. He shivered in cold, and suffered from unbearable heat in the same time. Fever was setting in, he realized distantly.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the heat in his breath. Where was he? What happened? Moments of confusion were interlaced with sharp clarity – like the point of a spear. If he can't get free he will die. That was clear to him. But it meant more pain.

He took a steadying breath. Not deep – that would hurt too much. It will soon, anyways. Now, before the fever robs him of all clear thought. Now. Now! His hands trembled. He could not. Just the slightest touch was unbearable pain. Now! No, just a moment…

He closed his eyes, angry with himself. Delaying would only make things worse, yet the anticipation of pain was unbearable. He felt cold sweat running down his temples. His shirt was soaked with blood – he could feel its smell, mixed with another. Tree sap. The tree was injured too, and it was because of him. Someone hurt because of him – again. Faces, voices. The men he had lost in his service to Rohan and Gondor, when he was Captain Thorongil. The Rangers he had lost on patrols… He saw them all before him, heard their voices…

He gasped, and opened his eyes. How much time had passed? The feverish pictures lingered in the corners of his mind. He knew it would grow worse. He must do it! He grasped the shaft of the spear with both hands. Now!

Agonized scream sounded in the glade. The birds in the branches took off, scared by the loud sound. A mouse slipped into its hole. Then it was quiet. Only perceptive ears could hear the silent whimpers and ragged breathing, coming from the near the tree trunk.

Another scream.

Aragorn could feel the spear moving in his shoulder. He nearly fainted, but fought to remain conscious. He had… to get… free! Dark spots danced before his eyes. The buzzing in his ears suppressed all other sound. He didn't know where he was and how he got here. He just knew he has to get free! Get… free…

It was quiet for a long time. The birds returned to the branches, the mouse curiously looked out from the hole. Then a weak moan.

 _Get free_ … That was his first thought when he came to himself again. He wanted to get free… But he was still pinned to the tree by the cruel Orc spear. Tears of pain and frustration ran down his cheeks. The agony of every movement was unbearable, but not moving meant certain death. He _had_ to get free.

Again he gripped the spear.

Again he screamed.

Again and again, weaker with every try. His strength was waning. Fevered visions filled his mind. The texture of the bark he was leaning on. The whispering of leaves. The roots in the soil. As if his spirit, longing to escape from the pain, encompassed the whole glade. He felt the birds in the branches. He felt the mouse in its hole. But above all, he felt the presence of the Tree. He was one with the Tree. He felt the roots deep in the soil, in the warm, moist darkness. The trunk – a centre, connection of all streams – the golden streams of life between the roots and branches. From the trunk he could soar high into the crown, open his spirit to the sun and rain, to the light of sun and stars.

The roots became graceful, slender legs. The branches became a flowing mane. He was sitting on a powerful horse that carried him deep into the ground and high into the sky. Yet the tree was still there, and the entire world was wrapped around it. It was a tree in a glade to the west of Rivendell, but at the same time it was all trees that have ever grown or will ever grow. It was a tender sapling and an ancient dying colossus, and everything in between.

In the swirl of images, of roots and branches, he was drawn to one shining most brightly. The trunk was as white as pearls and sea-foam, and its leaves living silver. It stood in a beautiful city of white marble, and music was in the air. And he knew he beheld Galathilion, which Yavanna herself made in the image of Telperion. It stood tall and fair in the Elven city, in the blessed years of the Trees. A child of music and light, a fruit was born from its branches, and he followed it as the soil embraced it, as something stirred inside – a tender, young leaf. The sapling grew to a mighty tree – the tree of Tol Eressëa, Celeborn. Again he followed its seed through darkness of soil and light, and the light was the rays of Sun, and the soil was the fertile earth of Númenor.

Nimloth, from which the White Tree of Gondor was born. Nimloth, which grew and prospered with the realm of western kings, but had to fall to the axes of Sauron's poisonous lies. He watched it from the shadows, and his heart wept for the white branches and silvery leaves. But something glistened in the branches – a fruit. One perfect fruit, the promise of a new life. There were guards around the tree – a hard, almost impossible task to take the fruit unnoticed. But here was a lineage more ancient than his, a task more important than his concerns.

When the guards looked away, he slipped from the shadows. Quick like a deer, quiet like a lynx, he reached the white trunk before the guards could notice. In the moment he touched it, the fruit fell right into his hand as if waiting for him, a living gem, more precious than any jewel, with the exception of the Silmarils maybe. He looked at the treasure in his hand for a moment, admiring the simple perfection. Quickly he recovered himself, though, and ran back into the shadows.

Luck was no longer with him. One of the guards noticed a movement with the corner of his eye. He turned quickly. "Intruder! Thief!" he cried.

Swords and spears rushed at him, hungry for his blood. He fought against the odds, fought for the small promise of light he held in his hand, for the light in the darkness that hovered above Númenor. He cried out in pain when sword bit into his arm, when a spear pierced his shoulder. The agony was almost more than he could bear, but still he fought, still he refused to give up. All the way to the gate, guard after guard rushed at him to punish the thief, and guard after guard fell under his sword. Out of breath he reached the gate, dark spots dancing before his eyes. He stumbled more than walked, but he cast his cloak about him, and slipped into the shadows. None of the guards had seen his face…

He kept to the shadows and narrow streets when torches were lit in the city, and cries of alarm sounded. The guards were looking for him, sweeping every corner, but in his dark cloak, he managed to slip out of the city – maybe the Valar themselves aided him.

Blood soaked his shirt. The wound on his shoulder hurt terribly. He dragged his feet on the dusty path. He stumbled and rose again. He bit off the sharp cry of pain. Just a little longer, just a little farther… his horse awaited him there, snorting impatiently. He was barely conscious when he grasped the mane for support. The horse sensed his condition, and lay down to help him mount. Red blood ran down the white mane.

It was a long journey to Rómenna, long and painful. He slipped in and out of consciousness, every step of the horse sent fresh waves of pain through his body. In his weary mind, the horse kept changing to a tree, and back again. In one moment he was impaled to a giant tree with a spear, and in the next he swayed in the saddle, trying to hold on and deliver the treasure he bore.

The colours were blurred, the sounds dull, then unnaturally loud in the next moment. He was hot and cold at the same time, and shivered like a leaf in the wind. Through the haze, he recognized a familiar shape. Just a little longer… There was the house of his father. Just a little… while longer...

He slipped from the saddle, and hit the ground painfully. His strength was giving out. Just a few steps. A few steps to the door. He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to stand up. Oh Valar, give me strength! One step. Another one. He stumbled. He couldn't get up again. He had no strength left… The door opened. He could hear muffled voices, like through a thick cloth. They called to him. _My son_!

_Isildur!_

He gathered the last remnants of his strength. With them, he lifted his hand, and opened the clenched palm. Carefully, gently, his father took the fruit of Nimloth from his hand. Then everything darkened…

_Aragorn!_

He gathered the last remnants of his strength. With them, he lifted his hands, and grasped the spear for one, last time. He pulled. White-hot agony seized his mind, but he did not stop. The spear moved slowly… slowly… suddenly, it came free! Then everything darkened….

* * *

The sharp metal moved inch by inch. She could feel his dreams, his agony. She suffered, too, for the touch of cold metal is always painful for the creations of Yavanna. It was a relief when the metal came out of her wood. From the open wound, silver tears of sap flew freely, in the same path where blood ran down the rough surface of the bark before. Now the trace of blood led down the trunk, to the still figure lying curled between the roots.

She was worried for him. The little flame was faltering again. She reached for it, and she felt the heat of high summer, the thirst of a parched land – and pain. So much pain… The leaves of the ancient tree shivered in sympathy.

The pale dawn was breaking, and the first birds began to sing. Silver dew covered the leaves like an ethereal lace. The leaves moved slightly…

* * *

Something cold touched his face. Something wet… A drop of water found its way to his mouth, and he licked it from his dry lips.

_What…?_

He gasped and clutched his shoulder. Blood flowed between his fingers. Sharp pain… like a beast devouring him from inside. He gritted his teeth firmly, and watched the blood. _What…?_

This was wrong. This shouldn't be so, he realized absentmindedly. There was something… he had to do about it. What? The blood… The blood of his life. Running freely. That was wrong. That's what he had to stop…

Tearing his cloak was too much of an exertion, too much pain. He just wrapped it around his shoulder whole, gritting his teeth as he fastened the knot. He rested for a few moments, the fingers of his uninjured hand digging into the soil. He struggled to control his breathing. Pain made his breath ragged. Ragged breathing meant pain. And still the blood flowed…

Again he grasped the cloak. With all strength he could find in his failing body, he pulled it, tightening the knot more. He bit his lip until it bled. Just a little more. He cried out. That was… enough… He hoped.

When the red spots stopped dancing before his eyes, he lay on the ground motionless, and watched the leaves fluttering above him. He was too exhausted to think, and his limbs felt like lead. It took an immense effort to move his fingers… And so he just lay, and watched the play of sun and shadow among the leaves. It was truly fascinating – the spots of light dancing on the bark of the mighty branches – each branch as strong as a full-grown tree. The sun shining through the leaves made them living jewels. A slight smile found its way to his lips as he watched them, detached from all pain and weariness.

A drop of dew rolled from one leaf. It glimmered in the rays of sun like a falling star. He watched it falling. It seemed like a long time, the drop descending slowly… slowly…

He felt the tiny wet splash on his cracked lips. He licked them absentmindedly, and the water felt so good on his tongue… He longed for more. He was so thirsty…

He snapped out of his reverie. He moaned. The pain returned. And thirst… desperate thirst… And that creek did not cease rumbling, did not cease tempting him with the sound of water he could not reach… could not… could… The stream! He blinked, realizing that he was not pinned to the tree anymore. The stream was just a few steps away…

Painfully he rolled over, and rested for a long while. A few steps. Just a few steps… If he just could walk. He propped himself on his good hand, clutching the other close to his body. His hand trembled, and every movement sent new waves of agony from his shoulder. He got his knees beneath him, but in that moment his hand refused to support him. With a groan, he fell back to the ground – but he moved forwards. Just a few inches, but he moved…

Inch by painful inch, step by step he crawled. The song of the stream was mocking and promising at the same time. It laughed at his weakness, but promised a reward. The cool, life-giving water… water to sooth his parched throat, to cool his feverish brow. Inch by inch… And the leaves above him whispered, rustled, as if encouraging him. The Sun rose in the sky – a few hours passed since he began the longest short journey, the few steps to the stream. The leaves shielded him from the hot rays, and the air was pleasantly cool and moist under the magnificent tree, but it was not enough. He needed the water from the stream, the water that was so close and yet so far… The water…

The water?

With wonder he stopped, and looked at his hand. His fingers touched something cold and wet, running swiftly… The water! He reached it! Finally he reached the stream!

With the rest of the strength he didn't know he possessed, he managed the last inches and lowered his lips to the stream. He drank deeply, forgetting everything else for a moment. Relief of the cool liquid running down his throat was like the first rain to a parched land. Then he sank on the bank of the stream, and closed his eyes. The leaves were really fascinating… The sound of the stream grew distant…

* * *

The Sun set. The stars circled in the sky. Then the Sun rose again.

She stood a silent watch over him, an ancient being guarding a little snatch of time. The flame of his life was dulled again. For a long time he wandered in dreams, and didn't wake. She could feel his pain, and the fever raging in his body. She could feel his ragged breath, his moans – the earth bore them to her roots, and her leaves echoed them in their rustling. The birds were quiet, feeling the distress of the old tree. As if life stopped in the glade, holding its breath. And hours passed…

There was the shadow of death hovering on the glade. She felt it, just like she felt the life of every creature within the reach of her branches. The sap did not flow from her wound anymore, just the last few drops, running down the rough bark. The blood was dried too, soaked into the wood. Through the bond of blood, she could feel his dreams: dreams about a white tree, growing high in a white city. Dreams about the seed that gave birth to it, saved with the great price of blood and pain. Dreams about darkness and death – the darkness that every seed has to go through to be born anew.

The leaves rustled in excitement. Just a faint idea, hope nestled in the bud. The bud opening, the leaves stretching to the sun. She reached through the distance, through roots and leaves, through branches and trunks. The ancient wood echoed with a quiet melody, the melody that only trees could hear. Through her roots it spread to the soil, her branches sent it to the air. The trees near the glade heard the song; their roots and branches embraced it, and echoed the melody, sending it further. _It is time,_ said the song. _It is time to wake…_

The song flew with the wind, echoed in the earth, spread in the water. _It is time,_ sang the beeches in the Trollshaws. _It is time,_ answered the birches in Rivendell with their clear, fair voices. The firs in the mountains echoed their song, and the willows that leaned their heads to the cool waters of Anduin. _It is time,_ the mallors in Lórien sang, and the ancient voices of Fangorn joined their song. It spread through the woods of Halifírien, to the realm of Gondor and the slopes of Mindolluin. It reached a small valley high up to the mountain, covered with the remains of the last snow. _It is time_ …

In that secret valley, a seed lay in the embrace of soil. For a long time it waited, a long time of darkness and secrecy. A seed in soil, a hope in heart. A tender silver leaf was curled in the seed, sleeping, dreaming…

_It is time… It is time to wake…_

Something stirred in the seed. The time has come! Suddenly it wanted to see the sun, to feel its rays again. The power of life surged, breaking the bonds. The seed cracked, and a little silvery-green leaf showed its head. Darkness of the soil was all around. It had to get out, out to the sun! Through hard soil and rocks, through the last year's snow… So frail, so soft, yet so strong with determination. The joy of life! The shoot peeked above the rocks and snow. Like a slender hand stretching to the sun, it opened to her rays, and to the fresh mountain wind and refreshing rain. Hope! There was hope! The sun gave strength to the little shoot; the rain gave water to it. It grew, grew quickly. So tender, so strong. It grew and waited for someone, for his touch…

* * *

A long night of dark dreams. A nightmare without waking. There was only pain and feverish dreams. Sometimes, he could hear blurred voices, but they faded into nothingness as he slipped in and out of consciousness, walking on the border between waking and sleep, between life and death. Winter passed, long and hopeless months filled with the agony of waking and the nightmares of sleep. Every night, death walked around him, the cold breath on his neck. Every day was just a delay, a little closer to the dark door.

Then the spring came. He could feel a ray of sun on his face, and there was a sweet scent in the room. He opened his eyes, and saw a silvery leaf opening to the sun. A child of sun and music, shoot from the fruit of Nimloth. In wonder he blinked. The pain passed, and his wounds did not trouble him anymore. He breathed in deeply the fresh air of spring, and marvelled at the sight of the opening leaf. So tender, so frail, yet there was such strength and determination in it. The will to live, to grow…

Isildur smiled.

* * *

Aragorn opened his eyes. The image of an opening silver leaf still lingered in his mind. So frail, so beautiful, so strong… He kept the image while he could, admiring it before the waking world took its place, before the pain came. But it did not come. He saw the branches of a great tree swaying above his head in a gentle breeze. He could smell the scent of flowers, opening to the sun. He could think clearly again - the fever was gone. Tentatively, he moved. The pain was dull, muted – not the angry flame of agony burning in his shoulder not long ago. He sat up slowly. His head spun a little, but he felt better after he slaked his thirst in the little stream. His wounds did not trouble him anymore.

He turned to the great tree. He admired it for a few moments, and then he tried to stand up. At first, his legs felt wobbly, and he managed just a few steps before he sank to the ground again. The pain was still there, but it was not unbearable. The next try was a bit more successful, and his legs carried him all the way to the trunk of the magnificent tree. He leaned on it, and remained so for a few moments. It seemed to him he could feel something, like golden streams of light flowing in the ancient wood. Not just in the wood – they entered his body, and he felt as if his strength was renewed.

He traced the warm bark with his fingers, feeling its texture with his fingertips. He found the place where the wood was injured – here the spear was embedded. For a long moment he watched the dried blood mixed with tree sap. He stroked it lightly, as if he would stroke something much more fragile. A young, silver leaf, maybe…

He felt reluctant to leave the great tree. He felt safe and welcomed in the glade, as if under the protection of a friend. But Rivendell awaited him, his family, his love. One last time he stroked the bark, and then he began the slow journey home. His body was weak, but he knew he would make it, like a small tender shoot can grow among the rocks.

* * *

3020 T.A.

_"Yé! utúvienyes! I have found it!_ " Aragorn's hand trembled slightly as he touched the slender stem, the silvery green leaves. Here was the sapling of the White Tree, a descendant of the tree that stood now quiet and dead on the fountain square, from the line of Nimloth the fair.

He knelt before the little tree. It was just a sapling, no more than seven years old. So graceful and tender it looked, and yet it survived among the rocks, in the barren land high on the mountain. The little tree shivered slightly under his touch, as if in joyful expectation.

Aragorn stroked one opening silver leaf. He has seen it before… in a dream…

It was exactly seven years ago. He remembered the old tree that stood guard over his dreams then, the tree that was connected to him through blood. He had dreamed about Isildur, about his healing when the first leaf of the White Tree opened. Now he held his breath, when he realized that sometime then, the first leaf of this sapling must have opened – in that very moment, maybe… In that moment when he awoke under the great tree, his wounds no longer hurting.

From the protected glade, he had walked to the borders of Rivendell. It had been a slow and painful journey, for he was still weak from the blood-loss, but it was not beyond his strength, and he managed to reach the Last Homely House. Elrond was amazed, for he found that the terrible wound was already healing. He assured that the muscles and bones would mend correctly, and the care of the Elves and a long rest did the remainder of the work.

After he recovered, Aragorn often tried to find the glade with the great tree again. But he could not find it, nor did the Elves know anything about it. Maybe the tree herself – for somehow he knew it was a she – decided who she would lead to her glade. Maybe it was an Entwife who had become a tree in the long centuries, he mused, or even Yavanna herself – it was told about her that she used to dwell in the form of a high, magnificent tree. Or just an ancient, spreading tree, with the wisdom of centuries grown deeply into the wood.

And some trees are more powerful than others: he has heard tales about Old Man Willow, and how he twists the paths in the Old Forest to bring the travellers to him. Maybe she was similar, not malicious but kind, not luring the travellers but keeping them away from the glade she protected, allowing only those in who needed to enter. He never found the glade again, but the tree remained in his memory, timeless and magnificent.

Now, feeling the sapling of the White Tree in his hand, he remembered it again. He could feel the golden streams of life under his hand, and they felt familiar to him, like greeting an old friend. Now he knew what saved his life then…

Carefully he removed the stones around the stem, and pulled. And lo! the tree came out of the soil without harm, as if eager to embrace the fertile soil of the gardens of Minas Tirith. In his mind, he saw the tree growing high and tall, the branches white with flowers. There were children playing in the shade of the branches, and his throat constricted, for he knew they were his children, the branches of his house that will grow and prosper in the fertile soil of Gondor, and he is the Tree.

And when June came, and the tree was laden with blossom like the dress of a bride, he set watchmen upon the walls, for he knew that Arwen was coming, and his vision would be fulfilled

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> In Nordic mythology, Yggdrasil is an immense tree that creates an cosmic axis, and nine worlds are placed around it – the middle one being (what a surprise =))Midgardh, or Middle-earth. The name of the tree means "Ygg's (Odin's) horse". In a sacrifice to himself, the highest of the gods Odin, was hung from Yggdrasil for nine days and nights, pierced by his own spear, in order to learn the wisdom of the nine worlds, and bring sacred runes to people. Not only did he succeed in that, but also brought me an inspiration for this story.
> 
> The tale about Isildur and the White Tree can be found in the Silmarillion. The king of Númenor Ar-Pharazôn was corrupted by Sauron, who urged the White Tree to be cut down. But Isildur _passed alone in disguise to Armenelos and to the courts of the King, which were now forbidden to the Faithful; and he came to the place of the Tree, which was forbidden to all by the orders of Sauron, and the Tree was watched day and night by guards in his service. At that time Nimloth was dark and bore no bloom, for it was late in the autumn, and its winter was nigh; and Isildur passed through the guards and took from the Tree a fruit that hung upon it, and turned to go. But the guard was aroused, and he was assailed, and fought his way out, receiving many wounds; and he escaped, and because he was disguised it was not discovered who had laid hands on the Tree. But Isildur came at last hardly back to Rómenna and delivered the fruit to the hands of Amandil, ere his strength failed him. Then the fruit was planted in secret, and it was blessed by Amandil; and a shoot arose from it and sprouted in the spring. But when its first leaf opened then Isildur, who had lain long and come near to death, arose and was troubled no more by his wounds._
> 
> 1st place in Teitho challenge "Trees" 
> 
> Beta: Cairistiona <3


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